


In Spirit within

by Lacertae



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Introspection, M/M, Minor Character Death, Omnics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 08:05:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10849881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lacertae/pseuds/Lacertae
Summary: *Mondatta/Zenyatta (past)* A moment stolen in time as Zenyatta visits the memorial at King's Row.





	In Spirit within

**Author's Note:**

> I felt it was my right to suffer and share that pain around.

**In Spirit within**

 

“I dreamed about you, last night”.

The stone where he is sitting is cold, and hard. The streets around him are empty, civilians escorted away earlier by his companions who are now patrolling the area, allowing him a few minutes by himself.

The silence is thick and heavy around him, but he does not mind. It is within this weird, misplaced blanket of quiet that Zenyatta feels at ease, now, and able to open up.

Nobody is around to listen in, and he is aware he can relax –privacy is highly valued in OverWatch, and he won’t get interrupted. It won’t last long, but it will be enough.

In front of him, surrounded by flowers, messages of love and small gifts, there is a small, unassuming frame, a photo depicting an unchanging, polished face plate. The photo was taken during one of his many speeches, with his head tilted questioningly to the viewer. It makes Mondatta appear severe, judging. It is everything Mondatta never was, and staring at it too long hurts.

This is not who Mondatta was –a noble, reserved spokesperson– but it is the façade he offered to the public, especially in the later years, and that is who he became for all of them.

Not for him.

Zenyatta looks at the photo, and sees past that, and remembers.

He remembers how outspoken Mondatta always was, how there were always words to be had about anything, and everything. He remembers his gentle, lilted laugh, his head tilted to the side, the curve of his neck and the sharp angles of his face, which Zenyatta can still picture in his mind, even now. He remembers the way Mondatta’s polished metal shone under the light of the candles as they spoke well into the night, pressed side by side near a window, uncaring about anything except each other.

There were times Zenyatta would nod off as they talked, and wake up with his head cradled on Mondatta’s lap, and gentle hands caressing the pistons of his neck, feather-soft touches that lulled him back into sleep.

It is always that kind of memory that Zenyatta revisits when he needs to be strong for others –the times he allowed himself to be held, and comforted, because he wishes to share that feeling with as many people as he can, let others understand how it feels to be loved, and protected, and held dear above any other.

He remembers, and yearns, for those days long gone when each gentle touch was full of love, when Mondatta would guide Zenyatta through his meditation sessions, providing a beacon for him to follow towards the Iris, even as he knows that not long after that, their paths would diverge, and split.

Yet he still yearns, melancholy weaving its way into his soul so tightly Zenyatta cannot say where that ends and where the rest of him starts.

There are so many things Zenyatta regrets, and his days with Mondatta do not belong on that list.

The frame is old and battered, and so weirdly out of place in front of the building that Zenyatta feels almost at loss staring at it, but it’s better than the imposing and outlandish statue back in the plaza. Zenyatta can never look up at that and feel at ease, faced with grandeur that he never had to associate with Mondatta before, so this is his only other option.

Mondatta never needed those big gestures, the pompous words or the shows of devotion. He was never that kind of omnic, but there is power left behind for people to take, and a figure standing tall and proud against oppression is more of a symbol than anything else, and that is what Mondatta was, what he shaped himself to be.

Zenyatta respects that, but he misses –oh so much– the omnic he’s known for over a decade, and the simpler times spent at the monastery.

He misses, and misses and _misses_ , with an intensity that would be almost surprising if it was not constant and familiar, and as with everything else, Zenyatta has learned to cope with it and build himself back around it.

So much has changed since then, and Zenyatta’s universe has expanded to include new ideas,, new people to spend time with, new friends, colleagues, trusted companions, but… he still misses the one that holds half of his soul, and the hole within his chest is not one that will ever be truly filled, no matter how long he waits.

He could wait forever, and the gaping hole would still be there. That, too, is something he has learned to accept.

“You always seem to tease me, appearing just out of sight, out of reach, expecting me to chase you down,” there is warmth in his tone, such a casual lilt that seems almost out of place in front of a memorial. It’s not like he expects an answer –there is no spirit listening to him there, there is no particular reason why he is there instead of anywhere else… but he is no weaker for seeking a bit of relief when he can. “But no matter how much I run, it is never enough”.

The photo in front of him remains silent, of course, but Zenyatta is not looking at it anymore. He focuses his sight on the candles, the flowers, the small gifts placed all around it instead, on the love and the respect of others that he sees.

It helps more than staring into a soulless photo.

“Time grants reprieve from any pain, as long as you allow it,” he says, the words carefully void of any inflection. “That is what you used to say, and I thought I believed it. I believed it until I met Genji, and then no more. And then you died, and I realised just how empty your teachings were, how void of true understanding. Did you truly believe it, brother? That time would be enough, as long as the heart was willing?”

Again there is no reply, as there never is.

It is not the first time Zenyatta sits there in front of Mondatta’s memorial, and he is not even sure what he’s seeking. Not mercy, nor forgiveness, as the dead cannot forgive no more, but just like the Mondatta in his dreams, what he seeks is always out of reach.

“My heart is willing, and yet I still miss you now as much as I have missed you the day you died. As much as I missed you before, when you were still alive and yet far from me. And I am still as angry now as I was that day, as well, and there is never reprieve, nor consolation, that I can find”.

When he pauses, the silence envelopes him. With a soft sigh, he closes his optical receptors and focuses on the sound of his core, using it to centre himself. Like this, he can almost believe he’s not alone, and that Mondatta is still there at his side, just like before.

It’s a bitter lie, but he allows himself to believe it. Just one moment, just one.

Optical sensors shut off, auricular sensors focused on the sound of his core and the soft whirr of his fans, Zenyatta mourns.

He does not know why he does this to himself –why he keeps going, day after day, as if nothing is wrong, and yet finds himself sitting in front of Mondatta’s memorial every time he is at King’s Row on official OverWatch business, as if his next visit will not leave him distraught and unbalanced like every previous one.

The wound of Mondatta’s death is still raw, its edges blunter now than they were last week, last month, last year, but nowhere close to being less painful now than they were then.

It’s still agony.

There is not a single day when Zenyatta does not miss him.

He misses the sound of his voice, the way he’d call his name whenever Zenyatta said something impertinent, or the way he said the name they shared, full of warmth and love. His voice now only lives on in documentaries that sometimes air on holo-vision, and in the depths of his memory banks, where Mondatta’s laughter still makes his circuits ache.

He misses the way Mondatta walked, slow and steady with his back held straight, hands behind his back, head tilted enough to show he was listening. He always listened.

He misses the casual gestures of affection, fingers cradling the back of his head as he tugged Zenyatta against his chest, their knuckles bumping into each other whenever they walked side by side, a casual hand on his knee during meditation, steering him and keeping him grounded, or the way he’d hold him close after they spent some self-indulgent time together, hands exploring his frame idly, with familiar certainty.

He misses it all, and most of all he misses his presence. He made him feel safe, no matter how far he could go from the monastery, he knew he had a home to return to if so he chose. Not just the Shambali, but Mondatta himself.

There is nothing there for him now to return to, if Mondatta is not there.

He misses, most of all, the whirring of Mondatta’s core.

Even now, the sound is carved into his very soul, and his body remembers it, yearns for it. He wakes up sometimes at night with the certainty that he’s heard it only to find silence greeting him instead. When he reaches for the embrace of the Iris, he uses its memory to touch the golden light and bathe himself in it, and soothes this way a fragment of his pain, though it only lasts for as long as the Iris allows him to.

The Iris’ grace is nothing if not an expansion of the sound of Mondatta’s core, a love that was always clear and bright and overflowing, if sometimes difficult to convey, and… this is the kind of feeling Zenyatta hopes he will be able to share with others, too.

Mondatta will be hailed as a martyr, as the tireless face of opposition in the face of oppression, but he was so much more than that.

He stood alone for so long that it became normal to walk the path on his own, even after Zenyatta’s arrival, and even then Mondatta always felt the need to be in charge, never allowing others to take responsibility for things he could help himself. He was not always right, and sometimes his beliefs were too sharp, or too blunt… but he was also a single omnic who fought for what he believed into –for the rights of every omnic alike.

Zenyatta remembers that, every fight he’s had with him, every misunderstanding, every moment of discord, just as he remembers the times of happiness and agreement alike. Where others might fall back to faulty images, Zenyatta will make sure to remember it all.

When people will look upon the statue at King’s Row, and see the majestic, imposing figure of a saviour, of a protector, Zenyatta will look deep within himself and see one hesitant hand reaching for him the night he chose to leave the monastery, and remember how frail Mondatta had looked then. How resigned, yet understanding.

When people will look with love and respect at Mondatta’s face plastered on memorials all around the world, his memory inspiring others to stand up and fight, Zenyatta will remember hands that held him close and never wanted to let go, egoistically wishing for Zenyatta to stay and renounce to his path if only for another day, because Mondatta was also lonely, and did not think he would be able to do everything by himself.

This memorial is one of many, and it has little importance if Mondatta’s last moments were here, as opposed to anywhere else. His spirit is not here, nor in that big statue.

His spirit is within the Iris, in its light, in the warmth Zenyatta experiences and accepts in himself when he transcends. His spirit is a guiding light, and it does not matter where Zenyatta is, because wherever he is, he can touch the Iris, and through it, he can touch Mondatta’s core once again.

He comes _here_ , maybe, because he’s still alive, and Mondatta is not.

Because he is but a single omnic too, and he is not above seeking relief where he can.

It makes him wonder, then, if Mondatta in his place would have broken down instead of attempting to patch his life and live on.

As long as he remembers him, there will be things Zenyatta has to do. As long as he can fight, walk on the path he chose, the path that diverged so greatly from Mondatta’s that he had to leave, Zenyatta will be ok.

Even when he craves for the caress of polished, gentle fingers and for the sound of a deep, caring laugh, even if his soul screams in pain and wishes to reunite again.

Zenyatta lives on.

It takes him a few seconds to collect himself, until his hands are not trembling anymore, until his shoulders are steady and he can open his optical sensors again without wanting to weep.

As he stands up, Zenyatta falters. He slips, stumbles, and catches himself on the wall, looking back one last time, forlorn, at the empty gaze of the photo of Mondatta, and knows that yet again he will return to his team, to his newfound family, on his legs, wobbling and quiet, and they will worry and offer him silent support that he will make himself accept, more for their sake than for his own.

They do not know the depth of his love, but they can imagine.

Yet, they will be there, waiting for him, and he must leave, gather in his hands the shattered fragments of his soul, and continue for another day.

“Farewell, brother,” he murmurs.

The silence is his only answer, as it should.

He knows that without fail, he will be back.

 

**Author's Note:**

> true story: if mondatta was not dead this would be my otp. sadly i can't survive on angst alone.


End file.
